1
The story of William Porphyry Benham is the story of a man who was led into adventure by an idea. It was an idea that took possession of his imagination quite early in life, it grew with him and changed with him, it interwove at last completely with his being. His story is its story. It was traceably germinating1 in the schoolboy; it was manifestly present in his mind at the very last moment of his adventurous2 life. He belonged to that fortunate minority who are independent of daily necessities, so that he was free to go about the world under its direction. It led him far. It led him into situations that bordered upon the fantastic, it made him ridiculous, it came near to making him sublime3. And this idea of his was of such a nature that in several aspects he could document it. Its logic4 forced him to introspection and to the making of a record.
An idea that can play so large a part in a life must necessarily have something of the complication and protean5 quality of life itself. It is not to be stated justly in any formula, it is not to be rendered by an epigram. As well one might show a man's skeleton for his portrait. Yet, essentially6, Benham's idea was simple. He had an incurable7, an almost innate8 persuasion9 that he had to live life nobly and thoroughly10. His commoner expression for that thorough living is "the aristocratic life." But by "aristocratic" he meant something very different from the quality of a Russian prince, let us say, or an English peer. He meant an intensity12, a clearness.... Nobility for him was to get something out of his individual existence, a flame, a jewel, a splendour--it is a thing easier to understand than to say.
One might hesitate to call this idea "innate," and yet it comes soon into a life when it comes at all. In Benham's case we might trace it back to the Day Nursery at Seagate, we might detect it stirring already at the petticoat stage, in various private struttings and valiant13 dreamings with a helmet of pasteboard and a white-metal sword. We have most of us been at least as far as that with Benham. And we have died like Horatius, slaying14 our thousands for our country, or we have perished at the stake or faced the levelled muskets15 of the firing party--"No, do not bandage my eyes"--because we would not betray the secret path that meant destruction to our city. But with Benham the vein16 was stronger, and it increased instead of fading out as he grew to manhood. It was less obscured by those earthy acquiescences, those discretions, that saving sense of proportion, which have made most of us so satisfactorily what we are. "Porphyry," his mother had discovered before he was seventeen, "is an excellent boy, a brilliant boy, but, I begin to see, just a little unbalanced."
The interest of him, the absurdity19 of him, the story of him, is that.
Most of us are--balanced; in spite of occasional reveries we do come to terms with the limitations of life, with those desires and dreams and discretions that, to say the least of it, qualify our nobility, we take refuge in our sense of humour and congratulate ourselves on a certain amiable20 freedom from priggishness or presumption21, but for Benham that easy declension to a humorous acceptance of life as it is did not occur. He found his limitations soon enough; he was perpetually rediscovering them, but out of these interments of the spirit he rose again--remarkably. When we others have decided22 that, to be plain about it, we are not going to lead the noble life at all, that the thing is too ambitious and expensive even to attempt, we have done so because there were other conceptions of existence that were good enough for us, we decided that instead of that glorious impossible being of ourselves, we would figure in our own eyes as jolly fellows, or sly dogs, or sane23, sound, capable men or brilliant successes, and so forth--practicable things. For Benham, exceptionally, there were not these practicable things. He blundered, he fell short of himself, he had--as you will be told--some astonishing rebuffs, but they never turned him aside for long. He went by nature for this preposterous24 idea of nobility as a linnet hatched in a cage will try to fly.
And when he discovered--and in this he was assisted not a little by his friend at his elbow--when he discovered that Nobility was not the simple thing he had at first supposed it to be, he set himself in a mood only slightly disconcerted to the discovery of Nobility. When it dawned upon him, as it did, that one cannot be noble, so to speak, IN VACUO, he set himself to discover a Noble Society. He began with simple beliefs and fine attitudes and ended in a conscious research. If he could not get through by a stride, then it followed that he must get through by a climb. He spent the greater part of his life studying and experimenting in the noble possibilities of man. He never lost his absurd faith in that conceivable splendour. At first it was always just round the corner or just through the wood; to the last it seemed still but a little way beyond the distant mountains.
For this reason this story has been called THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT. It was a real research, it was documented. In the rooms in Westhaven Street that at last were as much as one could call his home, he had accumulated material for--one hesitates to call it a book--let us say it was an analysis of, a guide to the noble life. There after his tragic25 death came his old friend White, the journalist and novelist, under a promise, and found these papers; he found them to the extent of a crammed26 bureau, half a score of patent files quite distended27 and a writing-table drawer-full, and he was greatly exercised to find them. They were, White declares, they are still after much experienced handling, an indigestible aggregation28. On this point White is very assured. When Benham thought he was gathering29 together a book he was dreaming, White says. There is no book in it....
Perhaps too, one might hazard, Benham was dreaming when he thought the noble life a human possibility. Perhaps man, like the ape and the hyaena and the tapeworm and many other of God's necessary but less attractive creatures, is not for such exalted30 ends. That doubt never seems to have got a lodgment in Benham's skull31; though at times one might suppose it the basis of White's thought. You will find in all Benham's story, if only it can be properly told, now subdued32, now loud and amazed and distressed33, but always traceable, this startled, protesting question, "BUT WHY THE DEVIL AREN'T WE?" As though necessarily we ought to be. He never faltered35 in his persuasion that behind the dingy36 face of this world, the earthy stubbornness, the baseness and dulness of himself and all of us, lurked38 the living jewels of heaven, the light of glory, things unspeakable. At first it seemed to him that one had only just to hammer and will, and at the end, after a life of willing and hammering, he was still convinced there was something, something in the nature of an Open Sesame, perhaps a little more intricate than one had supposed at first, a little more difficult to secure, but still in that nature, which would suddenly roll open for mankind the magic cave of the universe, that precious cave at the heart of all things, in which one must believe.
And then life--life would be the wonder it so perplexingly just isn't....
2
Benham did not go about the world telling people of this consuming research. He was not the prophet or preacher of his idea. It was too living and intricate and uncertain a part of him to speak freely about. It was his secret self; to expose it casually39 would have shamed him. He drew all sorts of reserves about him, he wore his manifest imperfections turned up about him like an overcoat in bitter wind. He was content to be inexplicable40. His thoughts led him to the conviction that this magnificent research could not be, any more than any other research can be, a solitary41 enterprise, but he delayed expression; in a mighty42 writing and stowing away of these papers he found a relief from the unpleasant urgency to confess and explain himself prematurely43. So that White, though he knew Benham with the intimacy44 of an old schoolfellow who had renewed his friendship, and had shared his last days and been a witness of his death, read the sheets of manuscript often with surprise and with a sense of added elucidation45.
And, being also a trained maker46 of books, White as he read was more and more distressed that an accumulation so interesting should be so entirely47 unshaped for publication. "But this will never make a book," said White with a note of personal grievance48. His hasty promise in their last moments together had bound him, it seemed, to a task he now found impossible. He would have to work upon it tremendously; and even then he did not see how it could be done.
This collection of papers was not a story, not an essay, not a confession49, not a diary. It was--nothing definable. It went into no conceivable covers. It was just, White decided, a proliferation. A vast proliferation. It wanted even a title. There were signs that Benham had intended to call it THE ARISTOCRATIC LIFE, and that he had tried at some other time the title of AN ESSAY ON ARISTOCRACY. Moreover, it would seem that towards the end he had been disposed to drop the word "aristocratic" altogether, and adopt some such phrase as THE LARGER LIFE. Once it was LIFE SET FREE. He had fallen away more and more from nearly everything that one associates with aristocracy--at the end only its ideals of fearlessness and generosity50 remained.
Of all these titles THE ARISTOCRATIC LIFE seemed at first most like a clue to White. Benham's erratic51 movements, his sudden impulses, his angers, his unaccountable patiences, his journeys to strange places, and his lapses52 into what had seemed to be pure adventurousness54, could all be put into system with that. Before White had turned over three pages of the great fascicle of manuscript that was called Book Two, he had found the word "Bushido" written with a particularly flourishing capital letter and twice repeated. "That was inevitable55," said White with the comforting regret one feels for a friend's banalities. "And it dates... [unreadable] this was early...."
"Modern aristocracy, the new aristocracy," he read presently, "has still to be discovered and understood. This is the necessary next step for mankind. As far as possible I will discover and understand it, and as far as I know it I will be it. This is the essential disposition56 of my mind. God knows I have appetites and sloths57 and habits and blindnesses, but so far as it is in my power to release myself I will escape to this...."
3
White sat far into the night and for several nights turning over papers and rummaging58 in untidy drawers. Memories came back to him of his dead friend and pieced themselves together with other memories and joined on to scraps59 in this writing. Bold yet convincing guesses began to leap across the gaps. A story shaped itself....
The story began with the schoolfellow he had known at Minchinghampton School.
Benham had come up from his father's preparatory school at Seagate. He had been a boy reserved rather than florid in his acts and manners, a boy with a pale face, incorrigible60 hair and brown eyes that went dark and deep with excitement. Several times White had seen him excited, and when he was excited Benham was capable of tensely daring things. On one occasion he had insisted upon walking across a field in which was an aggressive bull. It had been put there to prevent the boys taking a short cut to the swimming place. It had bellowed61 tremendously and finally charged him. He had dodged62 it and got away; at the time it had seemed an immense feat63 to White and the others who were safely up the field. He had walked to the fence, risking a second charge by his deliberation. Then he had sat on the fence and declared his intention of always crossing the field so long as the bull remained there. He had said this with white intensity, he had stopped abruptly64 in mid-sentence, and then suddenly he had dropped to the ground, clutched the fence, struggled with heaving shoulders, and been sick.
The combination of apparently66 stout67 heart and manifestly weak stomach had exercised the Minchinghampton intelligence profoundly.
On one or two other occasions Benham had shown courage of the same rather screwed-up sort. He showed it not only in physical but in mental things. A boy named Prothero set a fashion of religious discussion in the school, and Benham, after some self-examination, professed68 an atheistical70 republicanism rather in the manner of Shelley. This brought him into open conflict with Roddles, the History Master. Roddles had discovered these theological controversies71 in some mysterious way, and he took upon himself to talk at Benham and Prothero. He treated them to the common misapplication of that fool who "hath said in his heart there is no God." He did not perceive there was any difference between the fool who says a thing in his heart and one who says it in the dormitory. He revived that delectable72 anecdote73 of the Eton boy who professed disbelief and was at once "soundly flogged" by his head master. "Years afterwards that boy came back to thank ----"
"Gurr," said Prothero softly. "STEW--ard!"
"Your turn next, Benham," whispered an orthodox controversialist.
"Good Lord! I'd like to see him," said Benham with a forced loudness that could scarcely be ignored.
The subsequent controversy74 led to an interview with the head. From it Benham emerged more whitely strung up than ever. "He said he would certainly swish me if I deserved it, and I said I would certainly kill him if he did."
"And then?"
"He told me to go away and think it over. Said he would preach about it next Sunday.... Well, a swishing isn't a likely thing anyhow. But I would.... There isn't a master here I'd stand a thrashing from--not one.... And because I choose to say what I think!... I'd run amuck75."
For a week or so the school was exhilarated by a vain and ill-concealed hope that the head might try it just to see if Benham would. It was tantalizingly77 within the bounds of possibility....
These incidents came back to White's mind as he turned over the newspapers in the upper drawer of the bureau. The drawer was labelled "Fear--the First Limitation," and the material in it was evidently designed for the opening volume of the great unfinished book. Indeed, a portion of it was already arranged and written up.
As White read through this manuscript he was reminded of a score of schoolboy discussions Benham and he and Prothero had had together. Here was the same old toughness of mind, a kind of intellectual hardihood, that had sometimes shocked his schoolfellows. Benham had been one of those boys who do not originate ideas very freely, but who go out to them with a fierce sincerity78. He believed and disbelieved with emphasis. Prothero had first set him doubting, but it was Benham's own temperament79 took him on to denial. His youthful atheism80 had been a matter for secret consternation81 in White. White did not believe very much in God even then, but this positive disbelieving frightened him. It was going too far. There had been a terrible moment in the dormitory, during a thunderstorm, a thunderstorm so vehement82 that it had awakened83 them all, when Latham, the humourist and a quietly devout84 boy, had suddenly challenged Benham to deny his Maker.
"NOW say you don't believe in God?"
Benham sat up in bed and repeated his negative faith, while little Hopkins, the Bishop's son, being less certain about the accuracy of Providence85 than His aim, edged as far as he could away from Benham's cubicle87 and rolled his head in his bedclothes.
"And anyhow," said Benham, when it was clear that he was not to be struck dead forthwith, "you show a poor idea of your God to think he'd kill a schoolboy for honest doubt. Even old Roddles--"
"I can't listen to you," cried Latham the humourist, "I can't listen to you. It's--HORRIBLE."
"Well, who began it?" asked Benham.
A flash of lightning lit the dormitory and showed him to White white-faced and ablaze88 with excitement, sitting up with the bed-clothes about him. "Oh WOW!" wailed89 the muffled90 voice of little Hopkins as the thunder burst like a giant pistol overhead, and he buried his head still deeper in the bedclothes and gave way to unappeasable grief.
Latham's voice came out of the darkness. "This ATHEISM that you and Billy Prothero have brought into the school--"
He started violently at another vivid flash, and every one remained silent, waiting for the thunder....
But White remembered no more of the controversy because he had made a frightful91 discovery that filled and blocked his mind. Every time the lightning flashed, there was a red light in Benham's eyes....
It was only three days after when Prothero discovered exactly the same phenomenon in the School House boothole and talked of cats and cattle, that White's confidence in their friend was partially92 restored....
4
"Fear, the First Limitation"--his title indicated the spirit of Benham's opening book very clearly. His struggle with fear was the very beginning of his soul's history. It continued to the end. He had hardly decided to lead the noble life before he came bump against the fact that he was a physical coward. He felt fear acutely. "Fear," he wrote, "is the foremost and most persistent93 of the shepherding powers that keep us in the safe fold, that drive us back to the beaten track and comfort and--futility. The beginning of all aristocracy is the subjugation95 of fear."
At first the struggle was so great that he hated fear without any qualification; he wanted to abolish it altogether.
"When I was a boy," he writes, "I thought I would conquer fear for good and all, and never more be troubled by it. But it is not to be done in that way. One might as well dream of having dinner for the rest of one's life. Each time and always I have found that it has to be conquered afresh. To this day I fear, little things as well as big things. I have to grapple with some little dread96 every day--urge myself.... Just as I have to wash and shave myself every day.... I believe it is so with every one, but it is difficult to be sure; few men who go into dangers care very much to talk about fear...."
Later Benham found some excuses for fear, came even to dealings with fear. He never, however, admits that this universal instinct is any better than a kindly97 but unintelligent nurse from whose fostering restraints it is man's duty to escape. Discretion17, he declared, must remain; a sense of proportion, an "adequacy of enterprise," but the discretion of an aristocrat11 is in his head, a tactical detail, it has nothing to do with this visceral sinking, this ebb98 in the nerves. "From top to bottom, the whole spectrum99 of fear is bad, from panic fear at one extremity100 down to that mere101 disinclination for enterprise, that reluctance102 and indolence which is its lowest phase. These are things of the beast, these are for creatures that have a settled environment, a life history, that spin in a cage of instincts. But man is a beast of that kind no longer, he has left his habitat, he goes out to limitless living...."
This idea of man going out into new things, leaving securities, habits, customs, leaving his normal life altogether behind him, underlay103 all Benham's aristocratic conceptions. And it was natural that he should consider fear as entirely inconvenient104, treat it indeed with ingratitude105, and dwell upon the immense liberations that lie beyond for those who will force themselves through its remonstrances106....
Benham confessed his liability to fear quite freely in these notes. His fear of animals was ineradicable. He had had an overwhelming dread of bears until he was twelve or thirteen, the child's irrational107 dread of impossible bears, bears lurking108 under the bed and in the evening shadows. He confesses that even up to manhood he could not cross a field containing cattle without keeping a wary109 eye upon them--his bull adventure rather increased than diminished that disposition--he hated a strange dog at his heels and would manoeuvre110 himself as soon as possible out of reach of the teeth or heels of a horse. But the peculiar111 dread of his childhood was tigers. Some gaping112 nursemaid confronted him suddenly with a tiger in a cage in the menagerie annexe of a circus. "My small mind was overwhelmed."
"I had never thought," White read, "that a tiger was much larger than a St. Bernard dog.... This great creature!... I could not believe any hunter would attack such a monster except by stealth and with weapons of enormous power....
"He jerked himself to and fro across his cramped113, rickety cage and looked over my head with yellow eyes--at some phantom114 far away. Every now and then he snarled115. The contempt of his detestable indifference116 sank deeper and deeper into my soul. I knew that were the cage to vanish I should stand there motionless, his helpless prey117. I knew that were he at large in the same building with me I should be too terror-stricken to escape him. At the foot of a ladder leading clear to escape I should have awaited him paralyzed. At last I gripped my nurse's hand. 'Take me away,' I whispered.
"In my dreams that night he stalked me. I made my frozen flight from him, I slammed a door on him, and he thrust his paw through a panel as though it had been paper and clawed for me. The paw got longer and longer....
"I screamed so loudly that my father came up from his study.
"I remember that he took me in his arms.
"'It's only a big sort of pussy118, Poff,' he said. 'FELIS TIGRIS. FELIS, you know, means cat.'
"But I knew better. I was in no mood then for my father's insatiable pedagoguery.
"'And my little son mustn't be a coward.'...
"After that I understood I must keep silence and bear my tigers alone.
"For years the thought of that tiger's immensity haunted my mind. In my dreams I cowered119 before it a thousand times; in the dusk it rarely failed me. On the landing on my way to bed there was a patch of darkness beyond a chest that became a lurking horror for me, and sometimes the door of my father's bedroom would stand open and there was a long buff and crimson-striped shape, by day indeed an ottoman, but by night--. Could an ottoman crouch120 and stir in the flicker121 of a passing candle? Could an ottoman come after you noiselessly, and so close that you could not even turn round upon it? No!"
5
When Benham was already seventeen and, as he supposed, hardened against his fear of beasts, his friend Prothero gave him an account of the killing122 of an old labouring man by a stallion which had escaped out of its stable. The beast had careered across a field, leapt a hedge and come upon its victim suddenly. He had run a few paces and stopped, trying to defend his head with the horse rearing over him. It beat him down with two swift blows of its fore18 hoofs123, one, two, lifted him up in its long yellow teeth and worried him as a terrier does a rat--the poor old wretch124 was still able to make a bleating125 sound at that--dropped him, trampled126 and kicked him as he tried to crawl away, and went on trampling127 and battering128 him until he was no more than a bloody129 inhuman130 bundle of clothes and mire131. For more than half an hour this continued, and then its animal rage was exhausted132 and it desisted, and went and grazed at a little distance from this misshapen, hoof-marked, torn, and muddy remnant of a man. No one it seems but a horror-stricken child knew what was happening....
This picture of human indignity133 tortured Benham's imagination much more than it tortured the teller134 of the tale. It filled him with shame and horror. For three or four years every detail of that circumstantial narrative135 seemed unforgettable. A little lapse53 from perfect health and the obsession136 returned. He could not endure the neighing of horses: when he saw horses galloping137 in a field with him his heart stood still. And all his life thereafter he hated horses.
6
A different sort of fear that also greatly afflicted138 Benham was due to a certain clumsiness and insecurity he felt in giddy and unstable139 places. There he was more definitely balanced between the hopelessly rash and the pitifully discreet141.
He had written an account of a private struggle between himself and a certain path of planks142 and rock edges called the Bisse of Leysin. This happened in his adolescence144. He had had a bad attack of influenza145 and his doctor had sent him to a little hotel--the only hotel it was in those days--at Montana in Valais. There, later, when he had picked up his strength, his father was to join him and take him mountaineering, that second-rate mountaineering which is so dear to dons and schoolmasters. When the time came he was ready for that, but he had had his experiences. He had gone through a phase of real cowardice146. He was afraid, he confessed, before even he reached Montana; he was afraid of the steepness of the mountains. He had to drive ten or twelve miles up and up the mountain-side, a road of innumerable hairpin147 bends and precipitous banks, the horse was gaunt and ugly with a disposition to shy, and he confesses he clutched the side of the vehicle and speculated how he should jump if presently the whole turnout went tumbling over....
"And afterwards I dreamt dreams of precipices149. I made strides over precipices, I fell and fell with a floating swiftness towards remote valleys, I was assailed151 by eagles upon a perilous152 ledge153 that crumbled154 away and left me clinging by my nails to nothing."
The Bisse of Leysin is one of those artificial water-courses which bring water from some distant source to pastures that have an insufficient155 or uncertain supply. It is a little better known than most because of a certain exceptional boldness in its construction; for a distance of a few score yards it runs supported by iron staples156 across the front of a sheer precipice148, and for perhaps half a mile it hangs like an eyebrow157 over nearly or quite vertical158 walls of pine-set rock. Beside it, on the outer side of it, runs a path, which becomes an offhand159 gangway of planking at the overhanging places. At one corner, which gives the favourite picture postcard from Montana, the rocks project so sharply above the water that the passenger on the gangway must crouch down upon the bending plank143 as he walks. There is no hand-hold at all.
A path from Montana takes one over a pine-clad spur and down a precipitous zig-zag upon the middle of the Bisse, and thither160 Benham came, fascinated by the very fact that here was something of which the mere report frightened him. He had to walk across the cold clear rush of the Bisse upon a pine log, and then he found himself upon one of the gentler interludes of the Bisse track. It was a scrambling161 path nearly two feet wide, and below it were slopes, but not so steep as to terrify. At a vast distance below he saw through tree-stems and blue haze162 a twisted strand163 of bright whiteness, the river that joins the Rhone at Sion. It looped about and passed out of sight remotely beneath his feet. He turned to the right, and came to a corner that overhung a precipice. He craned his head round this corner and saw the evil place of the picture-postcards.
He remained for a long time trying to screw himself up to walk along the jagged six-inch edge of rock between cliff and torrent164 into which the path has shrunken, to the sagging165 plank under the overhanging rock beyond.
He could not bring himself to do that.
"It happened that close to the corner a large lump of rock and earth was breaking away, a cleft166 was opening, so that presently, it seemed possible at any moment, the mass would fall headlong into the blue deeps below. This impending167 avalanche168 was not in my path along the Bisse, it was no sort of danger to me, but in some way its insecurity gave a final touch to my cowardice. I could not get myself round that corner."
He turned away. He went and examined the planks in the other direction, and these he found less forbidding. He crossed one precipitous place, with a fall of twoscore feet or less beneath him, and found worse ahead. There also he managed. A third place was still more disagreeable. The plank was worn and thin, and sagged169 under him. He went along it supporting himself against the rock above the Bisse with an extended hand. Halfway170 the rock fell back, so that there was nothing whatever to hold. He stopped, hesitating whether he should go back--but on this plank there was no going back because no turning round seemed practicable. While he was still hesitating there came a helpful intervention171. Behind him he saw a peasant appearing and disappearing behind trees and projecting rock masses, and coming across the previous plank at a vigorous trot172....
Under the stimulus173 of a spectator Benham got to the end of this third place without much trouble. Then very politely he stood aside for the expert to go ahead so that he could follow at his own pace.
There were, however, more difficulties yet to come, and a disagreeable humiliation174. That confounded peasant developed a parental175 solicitude176. After each crossing he waited, and presently began to offer advice and encouragement. At last came a place where everything was overhanging, where the Bisse was leaking, and the plank wet and slippery. The water ran out of the leak near the brim of the wooden channel and fell in a long shivering thread of silver. THERE WAS NO SOUND OF ITS FALL. It just fell--into a void. Benham wished he had not noted177 that. He groaned178, but faced the plank; he knew this would be the slowest affair of all.
The peasant surveyed him from the further side.
"Don't be afraid!" cried the peasant in his clumsy Valaisian French, and returned, returning along the plank that seemed quite sufficiently179 loaded without him, extending a charitable hand.
"Damn!" whispered Benham, but he took the hand.
Afterwards, rather ignobly180, he tried to explain in his public-school French. "Pas de peur," he said. "Pas de peur. Mais la tete, n'a pas l'habitude."
The peasant, failing to understand, assured him again that there was no danger.
("Damn!")
Benham was led over all the other planks, he was led as if he was an old lady crossing a glacier181. He was led into absolute safety, and shamefacedly he rewarded his guide. Then he went a little way and sat down, swore softly, and watched the honest man go striding and plunging182 down towards Lens until he was out of sight.
"Now," said Benham to himself, "if I do not go back along the planks my secret honour is gone for ever."
He told himself that he had not a good head, that he was not well, that the sun was setting and the light no longer good, that he had a very good chance indeed of getting killed. Then it came to him suddenly as a clear and simple truth, as something luminously183 plain, that it is better to get killed than go away defeated by such fears and unsteadiness as his. The change came into his mind as if a white light were suddenly turned on--where there had been nothing but shadows and darkness. He rose to his feet and went swiftly and intently the whole way back, going with a kind of temperate184 recklessness, and, because he was no longer careful, easily. He went on beyond his starting place toward the corner, and did that supreme185 bit, to and fro, that bit where the lump was falling away, and he had to crouch, as gaily186 as the rest. Then he recrossed the Bisse upon the pine log, clambered up through the pines to the crest187, and returned through the meadows to his own hotel.
After that he should have slept the sleep of contentment, but instead he had quite dreadful nightmares, of hanging in frozen fear above incredible declivities, of ill-aimed leaps across chasms188 to slippery footholds, of planks that swayed and broke suddenly in the middle and headed him down and down....
The next day in the sunshine he walked the Bisse again with those dreams like trailing mists in his mind, and by comparison the path of the Bisse was nothing, it was like walking along a kerbstone, it was an exercise for young ladies....
7
In his younger days Benham had regarded Fear as a shameful189 secret and as a thing to be got rid of altogether. It seemed to him that to feel fear was to fall short of aristocracy, and in spite of the deep dreads190 and disgusts that haunted his mind, he set about the business of its subjugation as if it were a spiritual amputation191. But as he emerged from the egotism of adolescence he came to realize that this was too comprehensive an operation; every one feels fear, and your true aristocrat is not one who has eliminated, but one who controls or ignores it. Brave men are men who do things when they are afraid to do them, just as Nelson, even when he was seasick192, and he was frequently seasick, was still master of the sea. Benham developed two leading ideas about fear; one that it is worse at the first onset193, and far worse than any real experience, and the other that fear is essentially a social instinct. He set himself upon these lines to study--what can we call it?--the taming of fear, the nature, care, and management of fear....
"Fear is very like pain in this, that it is a deterrent194 thing. It is superficial. Just as a man's skin is infinitely195 more sensitive than anything inside.... Once you have forced yourself or have been forced through the outward fear into vivid action or experience, you feel very little. The worst moment is before things happen. Rowe, the African sportsman, told me that he had seen cowardice often enough in the presence of lions, but he had never seen any one actually charged by a lion who did not behave well. I have heard the same thing of many sorts of dangers.
"I began to suspect this first in the case of falling or jumping down. Giddiness may be an almost intolerable torture, and falling nothing of the sort. I once saw the face of an old man who had flung himself out of a high window in Rome, and who had been killed instantly on the pavement; it was not simply a serene196 face, it was glad, exalted. I suspect that when we have broken the shell of fear, falling may be delightful197. Jumping down is, after all, only a steeper tobogganing, and tobogganing a milder jumping down. Always I used to funk at the top of the Cresta run. I suffered sometimes almost intolerably; I found it almost impossible to get away. The first ten yards was like being slashed198 open with a sharp sword. But afterwards there was nothing but joyful199 thrills. All instinct, too, fought against me when I tried high diving. I managed it, and began to like it. I had to give it up because of my ears, but not until I had established the habit of stepping through that moment of disinclination.
"I was Challoner's passenger when he was killed at Sheerness. That was a queer unexpected experience, you may have supposed it an agony of terror, but indeed there was no fear in it at all. At any rate, I do not remember a moment of fear; it has gone clean out of my memory if ever it was there. We were swimming high and fast, three thousand feet or so, in a clear, sweet air over the town of Sheerness. The river, with a string of battleships, was far away to the west of us, and the endless grey-blue flats of the Thames to the north. The sun was low behind a bank of cloud. I was watching a motor-car, which seemed to be crawling slowly enough, though, no doubt, it was making a respectable pace, between two hedges down below. It is extraordinary how slowly everything seems to be going when one sees it from such an height.
"Then the left wing of the monoplane came up like a door that slams, some wires whistled past my head, and one whipped off my helmet, and then, with the seat slipping away from me, down we went. I snatched unavailingly for the helmet, and then gripped the sides. It was like dropping in a boat suddenly into the trough of a wave--and going on dropping. We were both strapped201, and I got my feet against the side and clung to the locked second wheel.
"The sensation was as though something like an intermittent202 electric current was pouring through me. It's a ridiculous image to use, I can't justify203 it, but it was as if I was having cold blue light squirted through every pore of my being. There was an astonishment204, a feeling of confirmation205. 'Of course these things do happen sometimes,' I told myself. I don't remember that Challoner looked round or said anything at all. I am not sure that I looked at him....
"There seemed to be a long interval206 of intensely excited curiosity, and I remember thinking, 'Lord, but we shall come a smash in a minute!' Far ahead I saw the grey sheds of Eastchurch and people strolling about apparently unaware207 of our disaster. There was a sudden silence as Challoner stopped the engine....
"But the point I want to insist upon is that I did not feel afraid. I was simply enormously, terribly INTERESTED....
"There came a tremendous jolt208 and a lunge, and we were both tipped forward, so that we were hanging forehead down by our straps209, and it looked as if the sheds were in the sky, then I saw nothing but sky, then came another vast swerve210, and we were falling sideways, sideways....
"I was altogether out of breath and PHYSICALLY211 astonished, and I remember noting quite intelligently as we hit the ground how the green grass had an effect of POURING OUT in every direction from below us....
"Then I remember a jerk and a feeling that I was flying up again. I was astonished by a tremendous popping--fabric, wires, everything seemed going pop, pop, pop, like a machine-gun, and then came a flash of intense pain as my arm crumpled212 up. It was quite impersonal213 pain. As impersonal as seeing intense colour. SPLINTERS! I remember the word came into my head instantly. I remember that very definitely.
"I thought, I suppose, my arm was in splinters. Or perhaps of the scraps and ends of rods and wires flying about us. It is curious that while I remember the word I cannot recall the idea....
"When I became conscious again the chief thing present in my mind was that all those fellows round were young soldiers who wouldn't at all understand bad behaviour. My arm was--orchestral, but still far from being real suffering IN me. Also I wanted to know what Challoner had got. They wouldn't understand my questions, and then I twisted round and saw from the negligent214 way his feet came out from under the engine that he must be dead. And dark red stains with bright red froth--
"Of course!
"There again the chief feeling was a sense of oddity. I wasn't sorry for him any more than I was for myself.
"It seemed to me that it was all right with us both, remarkable215, vivid, but all right...."
8
"But though there is little or no fear in an aeroplane, even when it is smashing up, there is fear about aeroplanes. There is something that says very urgently, 'Don't,' to the man who looks up into the sky. It is very interesting to note how at a place like Eastchurch or Brooklands the necessary discretion trails the old visceral feeling with it, and how men will hang about, ready to go up, resolved to go up, but delaying. Men of indisputable courage will get into a state between dread and laziness, and waste whole hours of flying weather on any excuse or no excuse. Once they are up that inhibition vanishes. The man who was delaying and delaying half an hour ago will now be cutting the most venturesome capers216 in the air. Few men are in a hurry to get down again. I mean that quite apart from the hesitation217 of landing, they like being up there."
Then, abruptly, Benham comes back to his theory.
"Fear, you see, is the inevitable janitor218, but it is not the ruler of experience. That is what I am driving at in all this. The bark of danger is worse than its bite. Inside the portals there may be events and destruction, but terror stays defeated at the door. It may be that when that old man was killed by a horse the child who watched suffered more than he did....
"I am sure that was so...."
9
As White read Benham's notes and saw how his argument drove on, he was reminded again and again of those schoolboy days and Benham's hardihood, and his own instinctive219 unreasonable220 reluctance to follow those gallant221 intellectual leads. If fear is an ancient instinctive boundary that the modern life, the aristocratic life, is bound to ignore and transcend222, may this not also be the case with pain? We do a little adventure into the "life beyond fear"; may we not also think of adventuring into the life beyond pain? Is pain any saner223 a warning than fear? May not pain just as much as fear keep us from possible and splendid things? But why ask a question that is already answered in principle in every dentist's chair? Benham's idea, however, went much further than that, he was clearly suggesting that in pain itself, pain endured beyond a certain pitch, there might come pleasure again, an intensity of sensation that might have the colour of delight. He betrayed a real anxiety to demonstrate this possibility, he had the earnestness of a man who is sensible of dissentient elements within. He hated the thought of pain even more than he hated fear. His arguments did not in the least convince White, who stopped to poke224 the fire and assure himself of his own comfort in the midst of his reading.
Young people and unseasoned people, Benham argued, are apt to imagine that if fear is increased and carried to an extreme pitch it becomes unbearable225, one will faint or die; given a weak heart, a weak artery226 or any such structural227 defect and that may well happen, but it is just as possible that as the stimulation228 increases one passes through a brief ecstasy229 of terror to a new sane world, exalted but as sane as normal existence. There is the calmness of despair. Benham had made some notes to enforce this view, of the observed calm behaviour of men already hopelessly lost, men on sinking ships, men going to execution, men already maimed and awaiting the final stroke, but for the most part these were merely references to books and periodicals. In exactly the same way, he argued, we exaggerate the range of pain as if it were limitless. We think if we are unthinking that it passes into agony and so beyond endurance to destruction. It probably does nothing of the kind. Benham compared pain to the death range of the electric current. At a certain voltage it thrills, at a greater it torments230 and convulses, at a still greater it kills. But at enormous voltages, as Tesla was the first to demonstrate, it does no injury. And following on this came memoranda231 on the recorded behaviour of martyrs232, on the self-torture of Hindoo ascetics233, of the defiance234 of Red Indian prisoners.
"These things," Benham had written, "are much more horrible when one considers them from the point of view of an easy-chair";--White gave an assenting235 nod--"ARE THEY REALLY HORRIBLE AT ALL? Is it possible that these charred236 and slashed and splintered persons, those Indians hanging from hooks, those walkers in the fiery237 furnace, have had glimpses through great windows that were worth the price they paid for them? Haven't we allowed those checks and barriers that are so important a restraint upon childish enterprise, to creep up into and distress34 and distort adult life?...
"The modern world thinks too much as though painlessness and freedom from danger were ultimate ends. It is fear-haunted, it is troubled by the thoughts of pain and death, which it has never met except as well-guarded children meet these things, in exaggerated and untestable forms, in the menagerie or in nightmares. And so it thinks the discovery of anaesthetics the crowning triumph of civilization, and cosiness238 and innocent amusement, those ideals of the nursery, the whole purpose of mankind...."
"Mm," said White, and pressed his lips together and knotted his brows and shook his head.
10
But the bulk of Benham's discussion of fear was not concerned with this perverse239 and overstrained suggestion of pleasure reached through torture, this exaggeration of the man resolved not to shrink at anything; it was an examination of the present range and use of fear that led gradually to something like a theory of control and discipline. The second of his two dominating ideas was that fear is an instinct arising only in isolation240, that in a crowd there may be a collective panic, but that there is no real individual fear. Fear, Benham held, drives the man back to the crowd, the dog to its master, the wolf to the pack, and when it is felt that the danger is pooled, then fear leaves us. He was quite prepared to meet the objection that animals of a solitary habit do nevertheless exhibit fear. Some of this apparent fear, he argued, was merely discretion, and what is not discretion is the survival of an infantile characteristic. The fear felt by a tiger cub86 is certainly a social emotion, that drives it back to the other cubs241, to its mother and the dark hiding of the lair242. The fear of a fully140 grown tiger sends it into the reeds and the shadows, to a refuge, that must be "still reminiscent of the maternal243 lair." But fear has very little hold upon the adult solitary animal, it changes with extreme readiness to resentment244 and rage.
"Like most inexperienced people," ran his notes, "I was astonished at the reported feats245 of men in war; I believed they were exaggerated, and that there was a kind of unpremeditated conspiracy246 of silence about their real behaviour. But when on my way to visit India for the third time I turned off to see what I could of the fighting before Adrianople, I discovered at once that a thousand casually selected conscripts will, every one of them, do things together that not one of them could by any means be induced to do alone. I saw men not merely obey orders that gave them the nearly certain prospect247 of death, but I saw them exceeding orders; I saw men leap out of cover for the mere sake of defiance, and fall shot through and smashed by a score of bullets. I saw a number of Bulgarians in the hands of the surgeon, several quite frightfully wounded, refuse chloroform merely to impress the English onlooker248, some of their injuries I could scarcely endure to see, and I watched a line of infantry249 men go on up a hill and keep on quite manifestly cheerful with men dropping out and wriggling250, and men dropping out and lying still until every other man was down.... Not one man would have gone up that hill alone, without onlookers251...."
Rowe, the lion hunter, told Benham that only on one occasion in his life had he given way to ungovernable fear, and that was when he was alone. Many times he had been in fearful situations in the face of charging lions and elephants, and once he had been bowled over and carried some distance by a lion, but on none of these occasions had fear demoralized him. There was no question of his general pluck. But on one occasion he was lost in rocky waterless country in Somaliland. He strayed out in the early morning while his camels were being loaded, followed some antelope252 too far, and lost his bearings. He looked up expecting to see the sun on his right hand and found it on his left. He became bewildered. He wandered some time and then fired three signal shots and got no reply. Then losing his head he began shouting. He had only four or five more cartridges253 and no water-bottle. His men were accustomed to his going on alone, and might not begin to remark upon his absence until sundown.... It chanced, however, that one of the shikari noted the water-bottle he had left behind and organized a hunt for him.
Long before they found him he had passed to an extremity of terror. The world had become hideous255 and threatening, the sun was a pitiless glare, each rocky ridge254 he clambered became more dreadful than the last, each new valley into which he looked more hateful and desolate256, the cramped thorn bushes threatened him gauntly, the rocks had a sinister257 lustre258, and in every blue shadow about him the night and death lurked and waited. There was no hurry for them, presently they would spread out again and join and submerge him, presently in the confederated darkness he could be stalked and seized and slain259. Yes, this he admitted was real fear. He had cracked his voice, yelling as a child yells. And then he had become afraid of his own voice....
"Now this excess of fear in isolation, this comfort in a crowd, in support and in a refuge, even when support or refuge is quite illusory, is just exactly what one would expect of fear if one believed it to be an instinct which has become a misfit. In the ease of the soldier fear is so much a misfit that instead of saving him for the most part it destroys him. Raw soldiers under fire bunch together and armies fight in masses, men are mowed260 down in swathes, because only so is the courage of the common men sustained, only so can they be brave, albeit261 spread out and handling their weapons as men of unqualified daring would handle them they would be infinitely safer and more effective....
"And all of us, it may be, are restrained by this misfit fear from a thousand bold successful gestures of mind and body, we are held back from the attainment262 of mighty securities in pitiful temporary shelters that are perhaps in the end no better than traps...."
From such considerations Benham went on to speculate how far the crowd can be replaced in a man's imagination, how far some substitute for that social backing can be made to serve the same purpose in neutralizing263 fear. He wrote with the calm of a man who weighs the probabilities of a riddle264, and with the zeal265 of a man lost to every material consideration. His writing, it seemed to White, had something of the enthusiastic whiteness of his face, the enthusiastic brightness of his eyes. We can no more banish266 fear from our being at present than we can carve out the fleshy pillars of the heart or the pineal gland267 in the brain. It is deep in our inheritance. As deep as hunger. And just as we have to satisfy hunger in order that it should leave us free, so we have to satisfy the unconquerable importunity268 of fear. We have to reassure269 our faltering270 instincts. There must be something to take the place of lair and familiars, something not ourselves but general, that we must carry with us into the lonely places. For it is true that man has now not only to learn to fight in open order instead of in a phalanx, but he has to think and plan and act in open order, to live in open order....
Then with one of his abrupt65 transitions Benham had written, "This brings me to God."
"The devil it does!" said White, roused to a keener attention.
"By no feat of intention can we achieve courage in loneliness so long as we feel indeed alone. An isolated271 man, an egoist, an Epicurean man, will always fail himself in the solitary place. There must be something more with us to sustain us against this vast universe than the spark of life that began yesterday and must be extinguished to-morrow. There can be no courage beyond social courage, the sustaining confidence of the herd94, until there is in us the sense of God. But God is a word that covers a multitude of meanings. When I was a boy I was a passionate272 atheist69, I defied God, and so far as God is the mere sanction of social traditions and pressures, a mere dressing273 up of the crowd's will in canonicals, I do still deny him and repudiate274 him. That God I heard of first from my nursemaid, and in very truth he is the proper God of all the nursemaids of mankind. But there is another God than that God of obedience275, God the immortal276 adventurer in me, God who calls men from home and country, God scourged277 and crowned with thorns, who rose in a nail-pierced body out of death and came not to bring peace but a sword."
With something bordering upon intellectual consternation, White, who was a decent self-respecting sceptic, read these last clamberings of Benham's spirit. They were written in pencil; they were unfinished when he died.
(Surely the man was not a Christian278!)
"You may be heedless of death and suffering because you think you cannot suffer and die, or you may be heedless of death and pain because you have identified your life with the honour of mankind and the insatiable adventurousness of man's imagination, so that the possible death is negligible and the possible achievement altogether outweighs279 it."...
White shook his head over these pencilled fragments.
He was a member of the Rationalist Press Association, and he had always taken it for granted that Benham was an orthodox unbeliever. But this was hopelessly unsound, heresy280, perilous stuff; almost, it seemed to him, a posthumous281 betrayal....
11
One night when he was in India the spirit of adventure came upon Benham. He had gone with Kepple, of the forestry282 department, into the jungle country in the hills above the Tapti. He had been very anxious to see something of that aspect of Indian life, and he had snatched at the chance Kepple had given him. But they had scarcely started before the expedition was brought to an end by an accident, Kepple was thrown by a pony283 and his ankle broken. He and Benham bandaged it as well as they could, and a litter was sent for, and meanwhile they had to wait in the camp that was to have been the centre of their jungle raids. The second day of this waiting was worse for Kepple than the first, and he suffered much from the pressure of this amateurish284 bandaging. In the evening Benham got cool water from the well and rearranged things better; the two men dined and smoked under their thatched roof beneath the big banyan285, and then Kepple, tired out by his day of pain, was carried to his tent. Presently he fell asleep and Benham was left to himself.
Now that the heat was over he found himself quite indisposed to sleep. He felt full of life and anxious for happenings.
He went back and sat down upon the iron bedstead beneath the banyan, that Kepple had lain upon through the day, and he watched the soft immensity of the Indian night swallow up the last lingering colours of the world. It left the outlines, it obliterated286 nothing, but it stripped off the superficial reality of things. The moon was full and high overhead, and the light had not so much gone as changed from definition and the blazing glitter and reflections of solidity to a translucent287 and unsubstantial clearness. The jungle that bordered the little encampment north, south, and west seemed to have crept a little nearer, enriched itself with blackness, taken to itself voices.
(Surely it had been silent during the day.)
A warm, faintly-scented breeze just stirred the dead grass and the leaves. In the day the air had been still.
Immediately after the sunset there had been a great crying of peacocks in the distance, but that was over now; the crickets, however, were still noisy, and a persistent sound had become predominant, an industrious288 unmistakable sound, a sound that took his mind back to England, in midsummer. It was like a watchman's rattle--a nightjar!
So there were nightjars here in India, too! One might have expected something less familiar. And then came another cry from far away over the heat-stripped tree-tops, a less familiar cry. It was repeated. Was that perhaps some craving289 leopard290, a tiger cat, a panther?--
"HUNT, HUNT"; that might be a deer.
Then suddenly an angry chattering291 came from the dark trees quite close at hand. A monkey?...
These great, scarce visible, sweeping292 movements through the air were bats....
Of course, the day jungle is the jungle asleep. This was its waking hour. Now the deer were arising from their forms, the bears creeping out of their dens293 amidst the rocks and blundering down the gullies, the tigers and panthers and jungle cats stalking noiselessly from their lairs294 in the grass. Countless295 creatures that had hidden from the heat and pitiless exposure of the day stood now awake and alertly intent upon their purposes, grazed or sought water, flitting delicately through the moonlight and shadows. The jungle was awakening296. Again Benham heard that sound like the belling of a stag....
This was the real life of the jungle, this night life, into which man did not go. Here he was on the verge297 of a world that for all the stuffed trophies298 of the sportsman and the specimens299 of the naturalist300 is still almost as unknown as if it was upon another planet. What intruders men are, what foreigners in the life of this ancient system!
He looked over his shoulder, and there were the two little tents, one that sheltered Kepple and one that awaited him, and beyond, in an irregular line, glowed the ruddy smoky fires of the men. One or two turbaned figures still flitted about, and there was a voice--low, monotonous--it must have been telling a tale. Further, sighing and stirring ever and again, were tethered beasts, and then a great pale space of moonlight and the clumsy outlines of the village well. The clustering village itself slept in darkness beyond the mango trees, and still remoter the black encircling jungle closed in. One might have fancied this was the encampment of newly-come invaders301, were it not for the larger villages that are overgrown with thickets302 and altogether swallowed up again in the wilderness304, and for the deserted305 temples that are found rent asunder306 by the roots of trees and the ancient embankments that hold water only for the drinking of the sambur deer....
Benham turned his face to the dim jungle again....
He had come far out of his way to visit this strange world of the ancient life, that now recedes307 and dwindles308 before our new civilization, that seems fated to shrivel up and pass altogether before the dry advance of physical science and material organization. He was full of unsatisfied curiosities about its fierce hungers and passions, its fears and cruelties, its instincts and its well-nigh incommunicable and yet most precious understandings. He had long ceased to believe that the wild beast is wholly evil, and safety and plenty the ultimate good for men....
Perhaps he would never get nearer to this mysterious jungle life than he was now.
It was intolerably tantalizing76 that it should be so close at hand and so inaccessible309....
As Benham sat brooding over his disappointment the moon, swimming on through the still circle of the hours, passed slowly over him. The lights and shadows about him changed by imperceptible gradations and a long pale alley150 where the native cart track drove into the forest, opened slowly out of the darkness, slowly broadened, slowly lengthened310. It opened out to him with a quality of invitation....
There was the jungle before him. Was it after all so inaccessible?
"Come!" the road said to him.
Benham rose and walked out a few paces into the moonlight and stood motionless.
Was he afraid?
Even now some hungry watchful311 monster might lurk37 in yonder shadows, watching with infinite still patience. Kepple had told him how they would sit still for hours--staring unblinkingly as cats stare at a fire--and then crouch to advance. Beneath the shrill312 overtone of the nightjars, what noiseless grey shapes, what deep breathings and cracklings and creepings might there not be?...
Was he afraid?
That question determined313 him to go.
He hesitated whether he should take a gun. A stick? A gun, he knew, was a dangerous thing to an inexperienced man. No! He would go now, even as he was with empty hands. At least he would go as far as the end of that band of moonlight. If for no other reason than because he was afraid. NOW!
For a moment it seemed to him as though his feet were too heavy to lift and then, hands in pockets, khaki-clad, an almost invisible figure, he strolled towards the cart-track.
Come to that, he halted for a moment to regard the distant fires of the men. No one would miss him. They would think he was in his tent. He faced the stirring quiet ahead. The cart-track was a rutted path of soft, warm sand, on which he went almost noiselessly. A bird squabbled for an instant in a thicket303. A great white owl200 floated like a flake314 of moonlight across the track and vanished without a sound among the trees.
Along the moonlit path went Benham, and when he passed near trees his footsteps became noisy with the rustle315 and crash of dead leaves. The jungle was full of moonlight; twigs317, branches, creepers, grass-clumps came out acutely vivid. The trees and bushes stood in pools of darkness, and beyond were pale stretches of misty318 moonshine and big rocks shining with an unearthly lustre. Things seemed to be clear and yet uncertain. It was as if they dissolved or retired319 a little and then returned to solidity.
A sudden chattering broke out overhead, and black across the great stars soared a flying squirrel and caught a twig316, and ran for shelter. A second hesitated in a tree-top and pursued. They chased each other and vanished abruptly. He forgot his sense of insecurity in the interest of these active little silhouettes320. And he noted how much bigger and more wonderful the stars can look when one sees them through interlacing branches.
Ahead was darkness; but not so dark when he came to it that the track was invisible. He was at the limit of his intention, but now he saw that that had been a childish project. He would go on, he would walk right into the jungle. His first disinclination was conquered, and the soft intoxication321 of the subtropical moonshine was in his blood.... But he wished he could walk as a spirit walks, without this noise of leaves....
Yes, this was very wonderful and beautiful, and there must always be jungles for men to walk in. Always there must be jungles....
Some small beast snarled and bolted from under his feet. He stopped sharply. He had come into a darkness under great boughs322, and now he stood still as the little creature scuttled323 away. Beyond the track emerged into a dazzling whiteness....
In the stillness he could hear the deer belling again in the distance, and then came a fuss of monkeys in a group of trees near at hand. He remained still until this had died away into mutterings.
Then on the verge of movement he was startled by a ripe mango that slipped from its stalk and fell out of the tree and struck his hand. It took a little time to understand that, and then he laughed, and his muscles relaxed, and he went on again.
A thorn caught at him and he disentangled himself.
He crossed the open space, and the moon was like a great shield of light spread out above him. All the world seemed swimming in its radiance. The stars were like lamps in a mist of silvery blue.
The track led him on across white open spaces of shrivelled grass and sand, amidst trees where shadows made black patternings upon the silver, and then it plunged324 into obscurities. For a time it lifted, and then on one hand the bush fell away, and he saw across a vast moonlit valley wide undulations of open cultivation325, belts of jungle, copses, and a great lake as black as ebony. For a time the path ran thus open, and then the jungle closed in again and there were more thickets, more levels of grass, and in one place far overhead among the branches he heard and stood for a time perplexed326 at a vast deep humming of bees....
Presently a black monster with a hunched327 back went across his path heedless of him and making a great noise in the leaves. He stood quite still until it had g
收听单词发音 |
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germinating
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| n.& adj.发芽（的）v.（使）发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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protean
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| adj.反复无常的；变化自如的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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17
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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18
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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19
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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20
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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21
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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22
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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23
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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24
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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25
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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26
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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27
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
aggregation
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| n.聚合，组合；凝聚 | |
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29
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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30
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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31
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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32
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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33
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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34
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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35
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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36
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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37
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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38
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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39
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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40
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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41
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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42
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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43
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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44
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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45
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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46
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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49
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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50
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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51
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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52
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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53
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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54
adventurousness
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55
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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56
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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57
sloths
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| 懒散( sloth的名词复数 )； 懒惰； 树獭； （经济）停滞。 | |
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58
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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59
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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60
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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61
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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62
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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63
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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64
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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65
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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66
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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68
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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69
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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70
atheistical
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| adj.无神论（者）的 | |
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71
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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72
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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73
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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74
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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75
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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76
tantalizing
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|
| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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77
tantalizingly
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| adv.…得令人着急，…到令人着急的程度 | |
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78
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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79
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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80
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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81
consternation
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|
| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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82
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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83
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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84
devout
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|
| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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85
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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86
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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87
cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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88
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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89
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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91
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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92
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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93
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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94
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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95
subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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96
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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97
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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98
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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99
spectrum
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| n.谱，光谱，频谱；范围，幅度，系列 | |
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100
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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101
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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102
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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103
underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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104
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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105
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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106
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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107
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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108
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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109
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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110
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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111
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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112
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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113
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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114
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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115
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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116
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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117
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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118
pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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119
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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120
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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121
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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122
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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123
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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124
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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125
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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126
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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127
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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128
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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129
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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130
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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131
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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132
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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133
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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134
teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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135
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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136
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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137
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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138
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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140
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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141
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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142
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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143
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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144
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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145
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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146
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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147
hairpin
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| n.簪,束发夹，夹发针 | |
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148
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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149
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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150
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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151
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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152
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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153
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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154
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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155
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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156
staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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158
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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159
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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160
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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161
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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162
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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163
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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164
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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165
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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166
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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167
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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168
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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169
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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170
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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171
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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172
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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173
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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174
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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175
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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176
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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177
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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178
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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179
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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180
ignobly
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| 卑贱地，下流地 | |
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181
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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182
plunging
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|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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183
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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184
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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185
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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186
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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187
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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188
chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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189
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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190
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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191
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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192
seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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193
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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194
deterrent
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| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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195
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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196
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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197
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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198
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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199
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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200
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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201
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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202
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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203
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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204
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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205
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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206
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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207
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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208
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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209
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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210
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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211
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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212
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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213
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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214
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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215
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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216
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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217
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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218
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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219
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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220
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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221
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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222
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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223
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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224
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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225
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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226
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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227
structural
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| adj.构造的，组织的，建筑（用）的 | |
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228
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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229
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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230
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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231
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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232
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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233
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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234
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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235
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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236
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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237
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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238
cosiness
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| n.舒适，安逸 | |
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239
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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240
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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241
cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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242
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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243
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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244
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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245
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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246
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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247
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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248
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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249
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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250
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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251
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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252
antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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253
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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254
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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255
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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256
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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257
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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258
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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259
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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260
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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262
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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263
neutralizing
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| v.使失效( neutralize的现在分词 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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264
riddle
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|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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265
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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266
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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267
gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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268
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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269
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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270
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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273
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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274
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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275
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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276
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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277
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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278
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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279
outweighs
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的第三人称单数 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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280
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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281
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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282
forestry
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| n.森林学；林业 | |
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283
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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284
amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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285
banyan
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| n.菩提树，榕树 | |
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286
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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287
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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288
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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289
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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290
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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291
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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292
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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293
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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294
lairs
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| n.（野兽的）巢穴，窝( lair的名词复数 )；（人的）藏身处 | |
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295
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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296
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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297
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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298
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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299
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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300
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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301
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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302
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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303
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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304
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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306
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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307
recedes
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的第三人称单数 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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308
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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309
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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310
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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311
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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312
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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313
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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314
flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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315
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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316
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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317
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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318
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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319
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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320
silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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321
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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322
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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323
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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324
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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325
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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326
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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327
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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